Rushed to the Altar

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Rushed to the Altar Page 33

by Jane Feather


  He left the house without breakfast and rode to the Bell at Cheapside, where he drew a blank. The usual posting houses on the main routes out of the city also brought him nothing, and, dispirited, he returned to Half Moon Street at midday, intent on looking again through everything Clarissa had left behind. There must be a clue somewhere.

  Sally greeted him anxiously. “Is there news of Mistress Ordway, my lord? She didn’t say nothing to me about being called away so sudden like. Could she have ’ad an accident, sir?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, Sally, I wouldn’t be here now.” Jasper went upstairs and began a methodical search through the drawers, the armoire, the linen press, the secretaire, and everything he found made him question whether Clarissa had left of her own free will. Surely, even if she wanted nothing to remind her of a liaison that had ended with so much pain, she would have taken her toothbrush . . . her hairbrushes . . . the portmanteau that she had brought with her from King Street. Her own plain, simple gowns. They had nothing to do with him. They were not tainted by his touch.

  It was a bitter reflection and brought him no comfort. He was looking once more through the contents of the secretaire when he heard the front door knocker. Frowning, he went to the window looking down on the street. Did Clarissa often have visitors he didn’t know? Or was it his brothers once again? Two strange horses were tethered to the hitching posts that lined the street.

  Voices rose from the hall in answer to Sally’s inquiring tones. Jasper went to the door and stepped out onto the small landing.

  “We are here to see Mistress Astley, my girl. Be so good as to inform her?” The voice was plummy but redolent of authority.

  “But, sir, there’s no one of that name ’ere.” Sally was confused and apologetic.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, girl.” The second voice lacked the richness of the first but was every bit as authoritative. “Mistress Astley wrote to us from this very address. Where is your mistress?”

  Jasper felt his spirits lighten for the first time in two days as a glimmer of hope pierced his dread. He came swiftly down the stairs. “Gentlemen, perhaps we may be of service to each other.” He bowed as he reached the hall. The two prosperous-looking gentlemen bowed punctiliously, but their expressions were not particularly friendly.

  “I don’t know about that, sir. Whom do we have the honor of addressing?” Lawyer Danforth asked.

  “Blackwater, at your service, sir.” Jasper extended his hand, saying over his shoulder, “Sally, you may go.”

  “Blackwater who?” the other gentleman demanded.

  “Earl of,” Jasper informed him with a wry smile. “But you have the advantage of me, gentlemen.”

  They both subjected him to an astonished scrutiny. “You are the Earl of Blackwater, sir?”

  “The very same.”

  “Then perhaps you would be good enough to explain why you are giving orders in the house where Mistress Astley lodges?”

  “Astley?” Jasper raised an eyebrow. “So that’s her name. Gentlemen, the lady you seek is known to me and my household as Mistress Clarissa Ordway. If we can clarify that, then maybe we can converse to good purpose.” The glimmer of hope became a full-blown sunburst.

  “Your household, my lord?” Doctor Alsop was outraged. “Then permit me to tell you, sir, that you are a blackguard.”

  “Certainly you may tell me that, although I would dispute its truth.” Jasper gestured to the stairs. “As it happens Clarissa is my affianced bride, just so that there may be no misperceptions at the outset. Will you go up, gentlemen? I believe we need to exchange some information with a degree of urgency. Clarissa, you see, has disappeared, together with a small boy she seemed rather fond of.”

  “Francis,” his visitors said in unison.

  “That would be the urchin in question, although I know him as Frank. Please, gentlemen . . .” He gestured to the stairs again and this time the two men preceded him up and into the drawing room without demur.

  Jasper poured claret for his guests. “I need you to tell me the whole. Who is Clarissa? Who is responsible for her? And who let her loose in London, and why?”

  The doctor and the lawyer exchanged glances. Then Lawyer Danforth said, “Before we give you any such information, my lord, as the friends of Clarissa’s father, and as such her unofficial guardians, we would like to know why you consider you have the right to ask for it.”

  Jasper picked his words carefully. “Clarissa, as I said, is my affianced bride. She said she had no guardian, no family, and I thought it right that throughout our betrothal she should reside under my protection . . . in this house.”

  “And you believed her, sir?” Doctor Alsop made no attempt to hide his skepticism.

  “Not necessarily,” Jasper responded with a bland smile. “But she would divulge nothing more to me, so I judged it politic to go along with her fabrication.” He frowned suddenly. “Gentlemen, this is truly a matter of some urgency. Clarissa and the child—her brother, I assume—are in danger. There’s no other explanation.” No other explanation for any of it, he thought. For her prevarication, her lies, her manipulation. She had been desperately dodging danger as best she could.

  Danforth coughed, sipped his claret, glanced at the doctor, who nodded, and then the lawyer gave Jasper finally the whole picture.

  “So this piece of vermin has a house on Ludgate Hill?” Jasper was already at the door before the lawyer had reached his final period. “We’ll start there.”

  “He is their guardian, Lord Blackwater,” Danforth put in, as much for form’s sake as anything.

  “And he will shortly regret that fact,” Jasper stated curtly. “You are welcome to remain here, gentlemen, until I return with Clarissa and her brother.” He had reached the head of the stairs when the door knocker sounded again and Sally hurried across the hall to answer it.

  “Is Mistress Ordway in, Sally?” Sebastian came in on the question and saw his brother on the stair. “Oh, Jasper . . . will we be in the way? We came to see how Clarissa is.”

  “You will not be in the way, either of you.” Jasper nodded at Peregrine, who stood just behind his twin. “As it happens you will be very much to the point. Come with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The morning inched by in the attic bedchamber. No more food or water had been supplied and Clarissa was hard-pressed to find any kind of comfort for her little brother, who had sunk into an almost catatonic reverie, lying on the bed sucking his thumb, which he hadn’t done in years.

  She had tried hammering on the door but this time the noise had produced no response. It was just before noon when the door opened at last and Luke stood there, his wicked little knife in his hand. “Well, my dears, I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that my plans are now made.” He smiled at them. “Bring that sniveling brat over here, Clarissa.”

  She hesitated, and with sudden startling speed his arm flashed in another vicious blow across her face that made her reel, her head spinning. At least it wasn’t his knife hand, she thought with a strange mordant humor, which seemed to her as absurd as it was out of place.

  “Bring him here.” The command cracked with the same vicious intent as his hand.

  Clarissa went to the bed and gently lifted Francis to his feet. “Start to scream, love,” she whispered. She had no plan, could think of nothing except that if she let Luke take the boy without her, she would never see him again. Francis began to shriek, an ear-splitting scream that made her eardrums ache. Luke opened his mouth to speak but his voice had no power against the child’s wild screams.

  “He’ll stop if I come with him,” Clarissa shouted. “He won’t let you take him without me.”

  Francis picked up his cue rapidly. He flung himself on the floor, kicking, screaming at the top of his lungs, and when his uncle approached, bending to pull him to his feet, he sank his teeth into his hand. Luke yelled, yanking his hand back.

  “He’ll come quietly if I come with him,” Clarissa repeated de
sperately. They both needed to get out of this prison. There would be no opportunities for escape if they didn’t.

  Luke glowered, sucking his hand. He looked down at the screaming, flailing child. “Bring him,” he said savagely. “It makes no difference to me whether you’re with him or not.”

  Clarissa bent to lift Francis to his feet. He looked at her for guidance and she murmured, “Well done,” as she urged him to the door.

  Luke raised his knife hand. “One false move, Niece, and I’ll slice off the boy’s ear.” Francis shuddered with fear, pressing close to his sister as they went downstairs. Clarissa looked for the manservant, or whoever it was who had been behind Luke the previous day, but it felt as if the house was empty of all but themselves.

  “In there.” Luke gestured to a door to the right of the small landing. It gave onto a shabby salon. He thrust Francis down onto a sagging sofa and went to a sideboard to pour himself a tumbler of brandy. He turned back to them, cradling the glass in his palm. He surveyed them coldly for a long moment before beginning to speak. “Well, now that I have my wards safely in my guardianship once more, let me explain a few facts to you both.”

  Clarissa stood behind the sofa, her hands on her brother’s shoulders, reassuring him of her presence with the firmness of her grip. Her eyes were on the knife that Luke had laid down beside the brandy bottle on the sideboard. If she could get hold of it, she would kill her uncle without a moment’s hesitation.

  Luke was continuing to speak. “It seems to me, Niece, that your behavior in recent weeks indicates a certain witlessness, not to mention corruption of mind. My poor, dear brother would be turning in his grave if he knew that his gently bred daughter had embraced a life of such shocking depravity . . . shamelessly selling her body. Fortunately there are places where the depraved and weak-minded can be cared for, and I intend to see you safely committed to such an institution without delay.” His thin smile flickered across his lips, as poisonous as the tongue of an asp.

  Clarissa stared at him, for the moment unable to make sense of what he was saying, and then as the horror unfolded she thought she would vomit. “Bedlam?” she whispered. “You would threaten me with Bedlam?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, my dear niece, you much mistake the matter. I am not threatening you with anything, merely telling you how things will be.” He looked down at Francis. “You, my boy, will remain here with me in this house. We shall deal together extremely well, I’m sure. My attempt to educate you outside my house in a congenial family setting met only with ingratitude, so you will stay here. Your education may be a trifle neglected, but for that you have only yourself to blame.”

  Clarissa wondered if she really had lost her mind, listening to this extraordinary fabrication. No one would believe it; how could they? And yet, only she and Francis knew the truth of the baby farmer, and why would anyone believe such a tale of wickedness when their uncle and guardian smiled and swore the opposite? Besides, she would be locked up in a madhouse, anything she might say construed as the insane ramblings of a weak mind, and Francis would be alone with his uncle.

  It couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let it. She met her uncle’s self-satisfied smile with a cold stare, determined that he would not see her fear. “Since we appear to be your guests at present, sir, may we trespass upon your hospitality for some refreshment once again? It’s been a long time since that piece of moldy bread and stale cheese you saw fit to provide yesterday. Perhaps some coffee and bread and butter wouldn’t be too difficult to find . . . oh, and a glass of milk for Francis. He’s a growing boy.”

  She was rewarded with a flash of uncertainty in Luke’s eyes as for the first time a tiny crack marred his air of utter confidence. Then he recovered. “I suppose, since it will in some way be your last meal, my dear niece, something could be contrived.”

  “Are you saying they don’t feed the inmates of Bedlam?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows.

  Luke took a step towards her, his hand raised to strike again. She held her ground, meeting his fury-filled gaze steadily. It took every last vestige of courage she possessed, but it worked. Her uncle gave her a look of loathing, but his hand dropped and he turned away to pull the bell rope. When his servant appeared, his curious gaze darting to the boy on the sofa, his master told him irascibly to bring coffee and bread and butter, and a cup of milk.

  Luke poured himself more brandy and drained the glass. Clarissa glanced casually around the salon, looking for inspiration. Something she could use, anything that would give her a plan of action. Luke regarded them in silence, that same flicker of a smile on his lips. Francis sat slumped in the corner of the sofa, and Clarissa could feel beneath her hands that he had surrendered his spirit. She couldn’t blame him after the dreadful experiences of the last months, but it filled her with a cold fury that added fuel to the determination to do something . . . anything.

  The manservant came back with a tray, which he set down on the table in front of the sofa. “That be all?”

  Luke waved him away. “Well, what are you waiting for? Avail yourself of my hospitality, Niece.”

  Clarissa came around to the front of the sofa. “You are very kind, sir.” She picked up the milk and gave it to Francis. “Drink this, love, and I’ll get you some bread and butter.” She turned back to the tray. “Coffee, Uncle?”

  He shook his head, refilling his brandy glass for the third time. “Make the most of it. We’ll be leaving in half an hour and I doubt you’ll see another coffeepot for the remainder of your miserable existence.”

  Clarissa picked up the coffeepot, spun on her heel, and hurled the pot and its steaming contents at her uncle. “Run, Francis.” She picked up the poker and swung it at Luke’s head as he convulsed, with his hands to his face, hot coffee streaming through his fingers. The poker made contact with bone, and he crumpled to his knees, choking and gasping.

  Francis was already at the door, wrenching it open. Clarissa hurled herself after him, grabbing his hand and racing down the stairs. The startled manservant was halfway across the hall when he saw them. He stared, his jaw dropping in surprise, and Clarissa shoved him hard as she ran for the door. He stumbled, righted himself as she tugged at the heavy bolts.

  “Hurry, ’Rissa . . . hurry.” Francis was prancing on his toes beside her while she struggled with the door. The manservant lunged forward and the child ducked and drove headfirst into his belly. The man made a strange sound like air emerging from a deflated balloon, bending double, his eyes streaming.

  Clarissa hauled the door open and burst into the street, Francis on her heels, and ran, for the second time in her life, straight into the Earl of Blackwater. His arms went around her and for a moment he held her tightly, her head pressed to his chest.

  Francis found himself swept into the arms of a man he’d seen before in the house on Half Moon Street. “Steady now, little man. You’re quite safe.” Peregrine’s voice was soothing as he held the child tightly. He looked at Sebastian over the child’s head, and they both looked at their elder brother, who was still clasping Clarissa closely against him.

  “I don’t know if I’ve killed him,” Clarissa said, her voice muffled. She lifted her head from Jasper’s chest.

  “We’re talking of your guardian, I assume.” Jasper moved her a little away from him so that he could look at her properly.

  Jasper gently touched the cut on her mouth, the bruise on her cheek, the lump on her head. “Is he responsible for these?” His voice was very soft but nonetheless filled with menace.

  “Yes. But I might have killed him . . . with the poker.”

  “Well, why don’t we go and find out.” Despite his fury at the cuts and bruises on her face, Jasper was filled with such happiness he could barely contain it. Only now did he understand the depths of his fear that something dreadful had happened to her . . . to the woman he loved more than life itself. She had been hurt, but he had her safe now.

  He tipped her chin on his palm, looking deep into her eyes
. “I thought I had lost you.”

  Clarissa looked at him, her eyes still a little wild. And it was as if she hadn’t heard him. “If we go back in there and he’s not dead, he won’t let us go again.”

  Jasper shook his head. “Believe me, Clarissa. No one is going to keep you from me. No one has that power. Now, let’s go in and see if I’m about to wed a murderess.”

  “I can’t understand why you would find that amusing,” she protested, although the terror of the last hours was gradually sliding away. “Francis mustn’t go into that house again. Perry, will you take him home?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Anything you say . . . be my pleasure.” Peregrine set Francis on his horse and swung up behind him, circling the boy with a securing arm.

  “ ’Rissa?” Francis held out his hands to his sister.

  She managed a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon, sweetheart. Go with Peregrine, you’re quite safe now.”

  The child looked over his shoulder at the gentleman riding behind him. Peregrine smiled. “Your sister’s right. You’re safe as houses with me, and you’ll see her soon.”

  “Perry, take him to Blackwater House, and stay with him,” Jasper instructed. “Sebastian, you had best come with us. If this brute of an uncle is not yet dead, we might need two swords. Although, of course, there’s always the poker.”

  “Oh, I do love a mill,” Sebastian said cheerfully, pushing the door open wide. “Dear me, there’s some poor soul gasping in the hall. Is that the uncle, Clarissa?”

  “No,” she said. “The servant. Francis butted him in the belly.”

  “Good for him,” Sebastian said. “You two seem remarkably well able to take care of yourselves.”

 

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